


Two Out Of Three

by Berty



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Bittersweet, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto wants answers to some big questions. Jack can only give him the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Out Of Three

If there’s moonlight outside the window tonight, I can’t see it. The pink-yellow glow of the streetlamps steals all but the shapes and shadows. Ianto’s flat is close to the city centre, so there’s a constant murmur of traffic and voices that’s strangely reassuring. The clock beside the bed flickers and another minute passes.

“Why you, Jack? What makes you the right man for the job?”

I thought he’d sleep afterwards. I thought that, like me, he wanted the kind of comfort that only another body can give. I thought that we could have at least given each other that much; I might not have the answers to the big questions, but I do a great line in distraction. I’ve heard there are some things that not even sex can solve, although I’m sceptical.

He’s been still in my arms for fifteen minutes or more, his back warm and solid against my chest. The gentle rub of his thumb against my wrist slowing, then stopping, made me think that he’d found enough peace to rest.

Obviously not.

There’s something more he needs from me tonight, other than coming home with him.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know. A certain flexibility? A kind of…”

“Ruthlessness?” Ianto says quickly – too quickly for it to be spontaneous.

I pull him closer, spooning up behind him, trying to divert him from this introspection, and I murmur in his ear. “Ruthless. Reckless. Relentless.” I press my groin against his ass, showing him my growing arousal. Showing him what he does to me.

He snuffs a small laugh and he covers my arms with his own and holds on, his thumb beginning its stroking again over the pulse point in my wrist.

And that isn’t the answer he wanted. I can tell from the humming tension in his shoulders and the knot of muscle at the back of his neck where my lips rest against his skin. He’s in the mood to talk, and I guess if that’s what he needs, then I can do that. Today’s been hard - the last _month_ has been hard; reconnecting with the team and evading the questions they’re afraid to ask and the reproach in their eyes.

“Ruthlessness,” I repeat softly, and consider the implication. “Possibly.”

“Because you can make the hard decisions. Even when it costs you personally.”

Ianto knows this; it’s not a question. He’s seen me do it a dozen times or more, but I can’t see quite where this is going yet, so I humour him. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So you could make that call. You could send any one of us to die if it were required.”

Too late, I see what he wants. “Ianto…”

“Tosh? You could send Tosh?”

I sigh. I take my time, but I won’t lie to him. “Yes.”

“Or Owen. Or Gwen… you’d send Gwen?”

“Yes, Ianto, I’d send Gwen. If I couldn’t do it myself and the alternative was the end of time, I would send Gwen to die.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he takes a few calming breaths. “That… that must be hard,” he says quietly.

He can’t see me, can’t see how inadequate that word is. Hard? It doesn’t even come close. So I close my eyes tightly and kiss his shoulder, moving my hand to rest over his heart, sure and strong against my palm.

“Only the first thousand times,” I tell him honestly.

He shifts back in his bed that’s really too small for two men. He presses back against me, fitting his body to mine, seeking comfort from the contact. I know what’s coming.

“What about me, Jack? Could you send me?”

The question hangs like a ghost in the darkness of his bedroom, brooding and oppressive. I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. But the silence grows, builds, expands around us until it is almost a tangible weight.

“Jesus, Jack,” he whispers, his breath shaky, and beneath my hand I can feel his heart speed up, racing, matching the rush of blood beneath my skin.

“That’s why me, Ianto. Do you see? I have to… I can’t afford to let myself…” I swallow down the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me. “I _have_ to.” I try to say it so he’ll understand, so he’ll know that the name of every single one I’ve ever had to sacrifice is seared onto my soul forever. That I regret it each and every time, but that I would do it again in an instant.

“Sometimes… sometimes I wonder if I know you at all.” His voice sounds so young, so unprepared for the life we live. I’ve often thought that about him; no matter what he sees or does, a kind of naivety still clings to him. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to him, why I find him so captivating. Maybe his idealism is what I need to balance my own cynicism and darkness.

“You know me, Ianto,” I tell him roughly, wishing my voice matched my conviction. Instead it’s broken and harsh.

“Not really,” he murmurs.

“Yes, really!” I insist, holding on to him tighter, seeking to fill any gap between his skin and mine, as if I could take him inside and make him a part of me.

His hand covers mine on his chest and he presses hard, his actions echoing my thoughts, and we lay like that for a while, neither of us wanting to be the one to let go first.

If I were a man who believed in prayer, I would spend hours on my knees, pleading for forgiveness for the souls that have passed by my hand. And I would offer up everything I am to keep him safe, to save me from ever having to make that choice.

But I’m not.

And if it came to it, I’d sacrifice him as well.

And live with the pain and guilt of that for eternity. Literally.

That’s the answer to his first question – why I’m the man for the job. That’s why I can’t ever let anyone get too close. I’m in a unique position, and the decisions I make have an impact beyond anything that Ianto or the others know about. I cannot afford to be in love, no matter what my personal inclinations are. I can’t let one person ever be so special that it would cause me to hesitate or to make an exception or to become distracted.

But sometimes it comes close. Sometimes it just happens despite my best efforts.

I’m not surprised when he moves, and I let him go without trying to stop him, waiting for his condemnation and his anger. But when he turns toward me and buries his head in my neck, his arms twining around me and hauling me in, I admit I’m shocked.

His mouth is hot and wet and everywhere. He’s panting, desperate, trying to climb inside me.

I put my arms around him and try to calm him with long, slow strokes down his back and his flanks, murmuring his name while his kisses sear me everywhere they touch.

I trace across his belly and lower into the tangle of hair at his groin, searching for him, hoping to give him what he wants. But he’s not hard at all, his cock is a soft, warm weight in my hand and he whimpers gently as I touch him.

“Shhh,” I tell him. “It’s okay.” Empty words at best. Outright lies more likely.

I brush up to his belly again, rubbing circles on his skin. The truth is I have no idea what he needs; I’m just biding my time until he lets me know. I thought he’d want me to leave – it’s not every man who can take knowing that the man he loves could let him go so easily. And he does love me. He thinks I don’t know. He thinks he’s playing it cool and being detached, but look closely and you quickly see that Ianto’s not a great actor. He can’t lie the way I do with every smile, every word, every glance and every gesture. It takes much, much longer to master that kind of deceit.

His mood swings again, and I know it’s a clue to how confused he is tonight. Suddenly impatient, he wriggles out from my arms, pushing me away in his haste. He rolls onto his belly and rises to his hands and knees.

“C’mon, Jack,” he urges.

I lay a soothing hand on his shoulder and he turns his face toward me, his eyebrows drawn down, almost as if he’s angry. I can feel him shiver, fine muscle tremors that ripple under his pale, smooth skin.

“I want you. Now.”

‘I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” I tell him gently, worried that a flat rejection will provoke him further.

“Do it,’ he says, his voice harder than I’ve ever heard.

“I’m flattered by your faith, but I’ve only just come, Ianto. I think you were there, remember? I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” Ianto insists, his eyes tracking down my body. And he’s right, of course. My dick is hard and wanting again, aching from the abuse, but more than willing to oblige.

His skin glows in the weird reflected shine of the streetlamps, the darkness of his hair made more pronounced. He’s slim and not too muscled and perfect. How could I _not_ react to that?

I kneel up and lay my chest against his back, holding him, keeping him together. I make no move to initiate anything other than closeness.

“Ianto, you can’t. It’s too soon, you’ll… I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” he whispers.

I smooth my hands across his shoulders. “Let’s sleep now. We need to be up in five hours.”

He’s silent for long minutes, slumped down now, his head in the pillows on his folded arms. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’m pretty sure he’s not doing what I suggested.

Finally he turns his face to the window and I can see him better in the sodium glow through the curtains. His eyes are unfocused, staring over my shoulder and his mouth is set in a grim line.

“What am I, Jack?”

“I don’t follow,” I have to admit.

“To you. What am I to you?”

“What do you want to hear, Ianto?” What can I say? What can I tell him that will be fair to us both?

“Owen…” he clears his throat and finally looks at me. “Owen once said that I was nothing more to you than a part-time…”

“Owen has no idea,” I insist. And Owen should keep his fucking mouth shut about things he has no knowledge of. He’s good at his job and we’ve got a pretty decent working relationship now, but some days I could gladly strangle Owen Harper.

He’s hardly in a position to judge me or what I have with Ianto. And no, maybe it’s not text book ‘boy meets boy and falls in love’ kind of stuff, but that doesn’t mean it’s what Owen’s intimating, and it doesn’t mean it’s not precious to me. He’s putting doubts into Ianto’s head, ideas that shouldn’t be there, confusing him.

“Do you need me at all, Jack?”

“Yes!” I insist. I do. He can’t possibly imagine how much.

“You. Not Torchwood. You.”

“Ianto…” I say again. It seems that I’ve said that a lot tonight and with very few answers to follow it. I know what he’s trying to do. He’s seeking to distinguish Jack Harkness from Torchwood, and to be honest I think he’ll have his work cut out for him. There _is_ a reason why I live at the Hub. It’s true; Torchwood has to come first – it has to be my primary concern. But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of emotion and it doesn’t mean I don’t need a connection, a bond with someone. Someone specific.

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t… just…” He hauls himself to his knees again, his head hanging between his arms, presenting himself to me. “Please, Jack.”

His self-doubt is agonising. The ideals he’s had to put aside to be here, the dreams he’s had to give up for me; when I think of them, I don’t know how I dare. But I know that one day soon this won’t be enough for him anymore; that he’ll make that choice and move on. And I won’t stop him. I know that I’ll smile and wish him luck and make it easy for him – as if my behaviour toward him doesn’t make it easy enough. I make it very clear that this isn’t happily ever after and it never will be. He knows I look at others, and more sometimes. It’s all but an invitation for him to do the same. He just hasn’t done it yet.

But he knows he can’t keep me.

And I know I won’t be able to keep him.

So I know I shouldn’t do this.

I kneel behind him and kiss his spine. I place my hands on his shoulders and gently push him down to the mattress. Moving to one side, I roll him onto his back; he’s pliant and silent, keeping his face turned from me again.

He looks up at me when I pull his legs apart and kneel between them. I reach across and grab another condom from the table beside his bed and he watches me with curious eyes as I stroke myself back to hardness and roll it on.

I lift his legs, my hands behind his knees, and push him back into the bed. His eyes are closed, a look of sweet longing on his face.

“Look at me,” I tell him.

He takes his time, biting his lip and swallowing before he complies. His eyes are so dark, so full of pain that for a moment it takes my breath away.

“I know who you are, Ianto. You’re not just… It’s you I need,” I whisper as I press into him. He’s still slippery and open to me from earlier, and his sweet warmth as he lets me in is welcoming and familiar.

“You came back for me,” he murmurs.

I said that. I shouldn’t have. “Yes,” I admit. No point in denying it now. “I came back for you.”

I ease all the way in, watching the play of expressions on his face. He _is_ sore, I knew he would be, and I know his skin burns and thrums the way mine does inside him. But I also know that he feels the same sense of connection and peace as I sink into him. I can see it in his wide eyes and his soft mouth, hear it in his quiet, measured breaths.

He accepts the hurt – he wants it to hurt. He needs to feel the stretch and pressure of me within him to drown out the pain in his heart. I know it, because I’ve done it myself. He has to know he’s at least wanted, needed, if nothing more than that. He needs that connection. That certainty.

And I need to see his face as I begin to fuck him slowly. I need to watch his mouth work and his eyelids flutter. My Ianto.

“Look at me,” I remind him. “I want to see you. I want to see your eyes. I want to know you’re with me, Ianto.”

He swallows and nods quickly, his normally perfect hair mussed and sweaty. His cock stirs, filling as I rock into him, until he’s hard again, bouncing on his belly when I thrust. His eyes close from time to time, when the sensation is too much, but he opens them again quickly, his gaze locking onto mine without hesitation.

My cock feels raw, a sweet, sharp throbbing. Even through the condom and the lube from earlier, my skin prickles and burns at the friction, but I don’t stop. Though my knees hurt and my back aches, I don’t hurry. I let it build slowly, I let it bloom in the darkest places inside us both and let it fill us up. He understands this. I can see it in his eyes.

“Ianto,” I whisper, “Ianto,” and he bring his hands up to clutch at mine, strong and sure.

When we come, one after the other, it’s like a wave - a slow, rolling inevitability that takes us both without a fight. The pulse of my orgasm sends spikes of hot pleasure and pain through me, disorienting me and I cling to him as we shudder together.

I slump down beside him, panting and shaking still and we lie for a minute. With sleepy, slow hands he finds tissues and takes the condom from my softening, sensitive dick. I reach across and kiss his expressive mouth, chasing the taste of him across his lips.

He smiles and it’s not the happy, sated smile of the recently and fabulously fucked, but it is sweet. Bittersweet. Acceptance and love and patience made real.

I kiss his nose and he closes his eyes when I pull him close, and this time he does sleep, falling quickly into oblivion.

I lose track of how long I watch him, but the yellow streetlights are watered by daylight by the time I close my eyes and try to find some of the peace I see in his face.

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Ximeria and Nicci for the insightful betas, and to Nicci for the title.


End file.
